Shattered Glass
by reagancrew
Summary: because alcohol makes you do the damndest things. as does becoming a mother. because helena wells deserves all the love myka bering has to offer her. because they are perfect in their imperfections and i will not listen to arguments otherwise. disclaimer: i don't own b&w or warehouse 13.


She swears it's the emptiness that wakes her, when she rolls over in her sleep and flings an arm out across the space where there normally resides a warm body, but comes up with only cold sheets instead, her subconscious automatically rouses her, putting her immediately on alert. She's used to sleeping alone of course; she spends more nights than not curled up under the comforter clutching a pillow to her chest and wishing her bed weren't quite so large. That's the job; she knows that, but it doesn't make falling asleep with only the sound of her own heart beat thumping in her ears - seeming to echo about the room in a way that defies physics - any easier. Tonight though, even in her sleep-addled state, she knows she should not be the only occupant of the queen-sized bed.

So when her hand hits not the warm, soft flesh of the person who shares her bed, but instead only the cotton fabric of the white sheet, she awakens almost instantaneously, sitting up and swinging her legs out from beneath the cover of the blankets before her conscious mind has had time to catch up with her actions. She stands a bit more carefully, slower than she used to, and wraps herself in the first warm item of clothing she comes upon. She pulls the old sweatshirt over her tousled curls, taking a moment to enjoy the scent that washes over her: apple blossoms and springtime. She was not the last one to wear it. The old floorboards are chilly on her bare feet as she makes her way to the door and pulls it open a crack, peering out into the darkened hall. Empty.

Cautiously - unsure why she's moving slowly and on her tiptoes as though she's gone back in time and is once more fifteen years old, sneaking back to her room after staying up past curfew curled in her own personal reading nook in her father's bookshop – she makes her way down the hall, passing several closed doors. The faint snores coming from one room means Pete is sleeping soundly, the silence from another, but the light emanating from the crack beneath the door indicates that Claudia has once more fallen asleep at her desk, no doubt in the middle of tinkering with some new invention. All is quiet from Steve's room, but Angela's door is still open, dark shadows filling the empty space. The owner of the B&B is away on some assignment for the Regents, and the house is quieter without her, less at peace. Artie's room at the head of the stairs is also silent, and she wonders briefly if the older man is even in there; he doesn't often spend a night away from the Warehouse. Claudia likes to joke that he's married to the place, but it always comes out sounding a bit too much like fact.

She heads down the stairs, skipping the second to last one because it squeaks something awful. The light glowing faintly from further in the house leads her to the kitchen, but she pauses before she reaches the doorway, holding her breath. She isn't sure what she'll find when she crosses the threshold. She knows that whatever is waiting for her probably won't be too receptive to her presence. But she's tried the whole staying-away thing, the I'll-leave-you-alone-and-be-noble thing, the you-need-your-space thing, and she's done with that. They promised to talk, to communicate, to be open and honest, and dammit if she's going to head back to bed knowing she's needed. So, filling her lungs with as much clear oxygen as they'll hold, she pushes the swinging door open silently and steps through into the dim kitchen.

But it's surprise that keeps her rooted to the spot she lands on, only one foot into the room, and a little bit of shock. She stares, unable to think, to form words immediately. The room is bathed in the soft glow from the oven light above the stove, and it throws the corners of the space into shadow. The person sitting at the table, head hung low, staring moodily into the dark amber liquid waiting in an almost empty bottle, glances up slowly at her entrance.

"You should be asleep," the voice that comes from the figure is raspy from the alcohol and disuse.

A snappy retort is on the tip of her tongue, a _so should you, _a _well, I'm only awake because you were missing, _but instead, she lets out a shaky breath carrying two simple words, quiet, yet full of all the things she's leaving unsaid, "Oh, Helena."

"Go back to bed, Myka," the other woman slurs, going back to staring at the bottle as though willing it to tip itself and fill the empty glass at its side.

The intruder doesn't move, except to shift her feet, now freezing on the tiled floor.

"I found Arthur's cache," the seated woman has seemed to decide that if Myka isn't going to leave, she might as well provide some sort of explanation. But when she looks up to find the brunette staring at her curiously, she nods to the bottle, and then proceeds to pick it up and slop a generous amount into the glass. "Would you like som- Oh, wait," Helena mumbles, cutting herself off. "Right," and she shrugs as though to apologize for her oversight, taking a hearty swig to cover the awkward silence descending upon the room. Myka frowns.

"Helena," she tries again, taking a step closer.

"No, darling, really. I'm fine," the other woman holds up a shaky hand, her normally sharp-eyed gaze glassy and unclear.

Myka watches her a moment longer, and then, making up her mind, she heads for the fridge, opening the door and peering in upon the fluorescent-lighted contents. When she emerges, she's clutching a jar of pickles in one hand. Next, ignoring Helena entirely, who is squinting at her in consternation, she crosses the room and pulls out the drawer of silverware, plucking up a butter knife, before opening the cupboard and grabbing the jar of peanut butter kept there, and finally sitting down at the table across from the other woman.

"What-what are you doing?" Helena is truly confused, her muddled brain unable to keep up with the rapidity of Myka's movements.

"You're drunk," the other woman responds shortly, unscrewing the pickles.

"You are correct," the culprit agrees, tilting back in her chair carefully, as though Myka discovers her drunk in the kitchen on a daily basis. "But what are _you _doing?" she repeats, undeterred.

"I'm hungry," Myka answers, slathering one of the pickles with the peanut substance and taking a large bite.

Her companion shudders in distaste. "How can that combination possibly be good?"

It's Myka's turn to shrug in her seat, taking another satisfied bite. "Cravings," she says, as though that explains everything, and it must, because the other woman suddenly nods, her face taking on a strange, haunted look. Myka nearly flinches at the expression looking back at her, fear and longing and anguish and despair all in one. But Helena's face rearranges itself in an instant and she wonders if perhaps it was merely a trick of the light, a fleeting shadow, a strip of moonlight through the window suddenly obscured by clouds. Except the other woman is pouring herself another glass, her hand shaking worse than ever, and Myka knows it was no mistake.

"Don't you think you've had enough?" she questions, her tone softer, and she reaches out a slim hand, as though to cover the other woman's with her own, but she pulls back at the last moment, knowing that at times no contact is best.

"Certainly not!" Helena declares before draining the liquid and slamming the glass back down on the tabletop. "Certainly not," but it comes out softer this time, reflective, as if she's forgotten she is no longer alone. "I never seem to have enough." And Myka knows that she is no longer talking about whiskey.

"Sweetheart," she murmurs, leaning forward and waiting to continue until Helena looks up at her, bleary eyed and frowning, "It's alright."

"No," Helena is shaking her head back and forth rapidly. "No. No!" And she's standing, sweeping her arm across the tabletop to send the glass flying, the sound of it making contact with the hard tile shattering around the room. "No," she's breathing rapidly, but her voice is calm. "It isn't alright."

Myka had jumped at the sudden violence, her heart racing, but she takes a deep, even breath, forcing herself to stand and make her way on shaky legs towards where the broom and dustpan are kept, as though this is a normal occurrence, as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

"I'm sorry," the voice comes from across the room where the other woman is still standing, her face white, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"It's –" but she stops herself before she can say it. "It's fine," she amends, hoping the other woman, in her inebriated state, won't notice her stumble. She's gathered the broom and is about to start sweeping up the mess, careful not to step on any tiny shards of sharp glass with her bare feet, when she realizes that Helena has moved to stand before her. For the second time in as many minutes, she jumps, startled.

"I'm sorry," the tears have begun to drip silently down her cheeks, leaving behind shining wet tracks of sadness.

Myka leans heavily on the broom handle, studying the woman in front of her, surprisingly steady for how much she's had to drink, looking miserable and frightened and more like a kitten that's been left out in the rain than the confident woman she so often projects to the world. She feels her heart soften the smallest amount, and then she's setting the broom aside and gathering the broken woman into her arms instead.

"Don't be sorry," she whispers, burying her face in silky brown hair: apple blossoms and springtime.

"I'm sorry."

Myka shakes her head easily, her love for this woman suddenly so overwhelming that she cannot speak.

"I just – " Helena pulls back, staring up into her lover's green eyes searchingly, looking for solace, for retribution, forgiveness, but finding only love, solid, unyielding promise. "There was a heart beat," she murmurs, awestruck, her hand having found its way to rest on Myka's stomach, the bump there indicating that another human life is in the process of coming into being. "I'm sorry," she repeats for a third time.

"Helena?"

"Yes," the other woman is staring at her hand resting atop Myka's sweatshirt.

"Do you love me?"

"Wha- I – Yes. Yes, of course," the tears have stopped falling, but her cheeks are still wet and shining as she glances quickly up at the woman in front of her.

Myka smiles gently to let her know that it's okay, "Do you love our baby?" she barely whispers.

Helena glances down and up again, her face, although once more shadowed in fear, haunted by things past, is glowing with determination, with truth, as she bites her bottom lip gently and nods.

The other woman grins at her, pushing an errant strand of hair behind her lover's ear, "There was a heartbeat, love."

Helena nods again, "There was. Oh, God. There was." And some of the fear has left her face, leaving behind only determination and strength, and the raw, unbridled look of a woman who is finally putting a name to the roaring in her ears, the twisting in her gut, the splitting of her heart, recognizing it for what it is, for its power, for love in its purest form.

And as Myka watches the understanding wash across Helena's face, she feels her own heart swell in response. She pulls the other woman close to her once more, wrapping her arms tightly around the slim waist, promising with more power than words could ever portray, the strength of her own love. They stand there, surrounded by the shattered glass and ghosts of lives once lived, until the fear has dissipated into the air, leaving in its place only peace, only joy, only two souls whose love has been enough to defy time and space again and again. Leaving behind only the hope that this is enough, that they, _together, _are enough.


End file.
